


Operation Sandman

by Goldmund



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:07:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23853559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldmund/pseuds/Goldmund
Summary: Mycroft is kidnapped and Sherlock needs to find him before something terrible is going to happen. Drama Lama...it's intense, nothing for fraidy cats. Some violence, mindgames, childhood traumata, basically the whole bouquet of angtsy fanfiction. I'm going to ignore season 4. It never happened. :) (Started to write this some time ago, now I'm trying to finish it :)
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/his ego
Kudos: 17





	1. Captured

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own. No Beta atm. Tried to proof-read it myself. (No native speaker, but trying to be as thorough as possible).

Fire and Ice  
Some say the world will end in fire,  
Some say in ice.  
From what I've tasted of desire  
I hold with those who favor fire.  
But if it had to perish twice,  
I think I know enough of hate  
to say that for destruction ice  
Is also great  
And would suffice.  
\- Robert Frost -

Prolog:  
Somewhere in London, England, UK, June 2014  
A man in a suit accesses an elevator. The door closes. He presses the button which shows the number minus 3 and goes down, down, down. He carries an attaché case. He waits. The doors of the elevator open into an empty hallway. The man walks with purpose and stops at the third door on the left. He takes an ID card out of his jacket and pulls it through the scanner. The heavy door opens. He turns on the lights and walks into a spacious room, filled with shelves that go high up to the ceiling. The man walks all the way down one of the corridors until he reaches the end and stops. He gets on his tiptoes and fishes for one of the countless beige boxes. The box he came for is inscribed with the words: Operation Sandman.  
He lifts the lid of the still empty box. Thereupon he opens his case and places a file as well as an USB device into it. He closes the box, puts it back on the shelve then he takes the empty attaché case, walks back to the entrance, turns off the lights and leaves the room, the floor, gets into the elevator, goes up, up, up, exits the building, gets into the car, turns the car keys and dies in a massive explosion. 

Chapter 1: Captured  
Mycroft opens his eyes, feeling a sharp pain shooting through his wrist, up his arm slightly decreasing when it reaches his shoulder. His right palm feels wet, warm fluid trickles down his fingers and on the plain white floor beneath where he’s sitting, strapped to a dentist’s chair – at least he deduces it must be one of these since his eyes are looking up to the ceiling from where a bright round light shines down on him not unlike the ones in operating theatres. Someone had used black cable tie to fixate his wrists and ankles to the chair – which couldn’t be older than 30 years since the ones manufactured before the 1980s weren’t technically developed enough to be tiltable.  
He redirects his attention to take a look at his aching wrist already knowing what causes the pain, but he wants to see how badly injured he is. He thinks it was a foolish idea to place a tracking device directly next to a major vein, but now it’s too late. There’s an ugly raw wound that obviously had been caused by using a scalpel performing a small vertical cut rather hurriedly. Although, his medical knowledge is quite superficial he knows the blood loss is not severe.  
His kidnapper doesn’t seem interested in physically harming him any further since Mycroft is connected to an ECD via ten electrodes that stick to his bare chest, measuring his heart rate. The room doesn’t give anything further away. There’s a large window in front of him, but he can’t see beyond his own reflection since the other side of the glass shows only darkness. The window glass is spotless – recently cleaned and polished.  
He can’t see what’s right behind him, but the three walls in his sight are plain and therefore do not give any information regarding his whereabouts either. Next to the ECD stands a metallic table and on top of it lies the rest of his clothing – piled up and neatly folded. His personal things (wallet, pocket watch, cell phone and umbrella, a light-calibre Smith & Wesson he always wears attached to the sock suspender of his left calf) are missing. The room smells after fresh paint. The chemical stench is strong so he deduces the paint was rather cheap – probably a common brand from one of the do-it-yourself stores. They must have re-painted the walls only hours ago. The tiles on the floor are antiquated, probably from the 50s or 60s, some of them are fragmented others show minor and larger rifts.  
He checks all corners, but can’t find any cameras while above his head a modern speaker system is installed (probably just recently and for one purpose only). Mycroft closes his eyes in order to focus on any sounds that might come from the unknown place behind the walls, but all he can hear is the quiet, steady noise of the ventilation system. He feels slightly dizzy which is probably caused by the narcotics that had been given to him by no one other than Charles Gibson – an old acquaintance and conservative politician who currently was one of the 303 members of the Unionist Party in the House of Commons. They had met at Gibson’s townhouse in Belgravia, because the politician had hinted to be in the possession of vital information about James Moriarty’s mysterious medial ‘resurrection’ earlier this month.  
Since the curious incident of taking over all TV channels at once, to send a hideous message to the world, that had rather sounded like a childish joke delivered from the afterlife than a serious threat, nothing more was heard from the crazy former criminal mastermind. A freeloader had seemed the most logical assumption at the time. So Mycroft had hoped to find out something more about the person that had used Moriarty’s brand to conceal his own identity by learning what Gibson had to say about it – obviously a miscalculation and a fatal mistake. There was still the other one to consider. Mycroft’s pressing problem. The secret service – as was to be expected – had been utterly useless.  
Charles Gibson was 49 years old, grown up in Northern London, a studied man with a major degree from Oxford in International Law and a minor in the absurdly useless subject of Historical Anthropology. He had married the daughter of a Scottish cigar fabricant that produced mostly overseas. Gibson and his wife Anne had four children, three girls, one boy – all four of them still minors. Charles was a loyal family man, a traditionalist, a patriarch. His preferred leisure activities included Golf, sailing, the not so prestigious activity of reenacting historical battle scenarios and of course Gibson was a member of the Diogenes Club for two years now. He also was a religious man – converted from the Anglican Church to Catholicism. As a member of the Catholic Church he was not only frequently attending services and supported his church by spending high amounts of money for charitable projects, but was also member of the advisory board of the Church and the Community Fund. Usually, Mycroft did not trust for one second in the integrity or starry-eyed idealism of a believer, but in this case he had witnessed Gibson’s religious conversion during a personal crisis of his life, which had also been the center of discussion in the British media for months.  
Mycroft had met Gibson for the first time five years ago when the politician had won his very first election. There was no bound of friendship between Gibson and him (Mycroft had no use for the concept of friendship), but they had established a basic trust over the last couple of years. Both had been rather active in the Pharmaceutical sector of politics at late (the third world fought many (fatal) diseases which needed to be cured or even better slowed down). Gibson was indulging in the pleasant political hobby of lobbyism, supporting pharmaceutical companies who were interested in going global and needed influential politicians to push through their agendas (granting patents or accelerate the juridical process, eliminating one or two nuisances with opponents and so forth) was a lucrative extra. Mycroft had had no reason to not trust Charles Gibson. They had possessed complementary interests. Gibson and he had pulled off more than one deal together. Well, now he had one. Gibson was a man of his word, someone, who was considered to be trustworthy and loyal as far as those attributes could be applied to a member of the political arena.  
He must have been pressured into playing the lure – one well-aimed threat towards Gibson’s precious family could have done the trick.  
Mycroft had known this day would come. The ruthless act of James Moriarty’s committed suicide, only to win a game without actual winners, had sealed Mycroft’s fate.  
His thoughts are interrupted by the opening of the door which was right behind him. He sees the blurry reflection of a figure in the mirror. The person carries something in his right hand since the sound of his footsteps increases slightly each time his right leg has to bear his weight. The person is likely to be male measuring by the size of his pace.  
Mycroft could see that the man had the statue of a body builder and was wearing a dark blue overall when he finally came to hold in front of him. He hid his face behind a mask made of papier-mâché. Printed on it was the laughing face of a member of the Royal family: Prince William, a tourist item one could buy everywhere in London these days. The man carries a medical kit which he puts on the metallic table next to Mycroft before he reaches for Mycroft’s wrist. The stranger examines the wound for a short moment before he directs his attention to the kit retrieving cleaning tools, scissors, and a bottle with a disinfecting agent, a surgical suture, medical needles, bandages, medical gloves and syringes. He doesn’t say a word, but just starts cleaning and disinfecting Mycroft’s wound. His hand does not tremble once during the entire procedure. After he had prepared the injured skin, the man starts stitching Mycroft’s broken flesh back together. He is not a doctor or a surgeon by the judging of his hands, but one could see that he had performed the procedure more than once before, probably on himself and on others. Mycroft guesses him to be an ex-soldier or secret service agent with a basic understanding of medical treatment (as they all had).  
“Thank you for taking care of me. May I speak with the one who’s in charge?”  
“He’s not allowed to speak to you,” explains an unfamiliar male voice via speaker.  
The man behind it must be in his late thirties or early forties – probably Caucasian – British origin, middle class background, his parents might descended from Middle England (almost not traceable in his pronunciation). Mycroft isn’t quite sure, since the stranger himself spoke in a South English dialect, likely Portsmouth.  
“That was very rude of me…how does the British Government feel today?” The voice asks.  
“With whom am I speaking? Mr. Moran?”  
The man in the room injects something into the crook of Mycroft’s left arm before he leaves.  
“What did you give me?”  
“It’s commonly called “Angel’s Dust” or PCP. You’ll like it. It affects a chemical in the brain that controls emotion, memory, and pleasure. It’s rather unpredictable since the substance’s affect depends on the person. The dose I gave you is above that a mixture of Ketamine and PCP. So, this is going to be a surprising ride for the both of us.”  
Mycroft already feels slightly dizzy – his thoughts leave his numb body floating through the air like a swirl wind. It seems there’s no wall that separates his emotional interior from the space that surrounds him. He tries to stay calm. He tries to focus. Mycroft closes his eyes, accessing his eidetic memory which works not much different from a common hard-drive, but he usually pictures it like a filing cabinet with hundreds of drawers where each drawer is the entrance to single memories, which are separated from one another by a complex system of classifications – a memory archive – so to speak.  
He pictures his filing room, hurriedly rushing from drawer to drawer pushing them shut as fast as he can. There are so many of them. He can’t just slam them all by just passing them. Some of the drawers have locks. One of the drawers stuck, because it’s filled with too much information. It’s the one from the Thatcher era. Too many years of dirty political laundry stuffed in one drawer. Mycroft leans against it, using all of his weight until the metal clicks and the lock closes.  
His vision becomes more blurry and he can’t remember which key belonged to which of the other drawers. There’s a cold panic rising in his chest. He looks at one of the older, rusty drawers. It stands open. He can’t concern himself with all the other openings. He has to reach that one in order to close it for good. He knows it has three different kinds of locks. It will need time. It’s after all the one that counts the most, containing his deepest secret, his sentimentalities which can never be allowed to see the light of day. His body slows down it seems harder and harder to concentrate on the set of keys. Finally, he finds the right one, pushing with one hand against metal while the other hand fumbles with the key. The drawer is stuck. He can’t move it one inch. The rust covering the old metal rails had made them blunt and resistant to any pressure. There are no index cards like inside the other ones, but colorful postcards and photographs. The first one that catches Mycroft’s eye was mailed to him from the United States and stamped in Oklahoma in 1982. On the back of the card it shows ugly and hardly readable handwriting, scribbled by the small hand of a child. It’s only a short text: “Mycroft! Uncle Rudi has strange social habits. Only yesterday, he was wearing his mother’s dress all day (it suits him well). The weather is agreeable. No river or lake though…how am I supposed to play Pirates? Don’t forget to feed Redbeard. I don’t miss you at all! SH!”  
“Oh Sherlock!”  
He can suddenly see his little brother with the curly hair and those huge blue eyes, smiling and waving down at him from the tree house built in the shape of a ship with round windows, a mast and a black flag. Sherlock wears a pair of navy blue dungarees and one of Mycroft’s old dress shirts which once had been white but was now stained with dirt. He also wears one of mommy’s red scarves around his head. He carries Mycroft’s telescope around while his little naked feet waddle up and down the small platform made of wooden planks in front of the ship-house.  
“Come up here and play with me, Mycroft!” Sherlock takes a look through the telescope, observing him.  
“I can’t. I have to study.”  
“But I need a helmsman!” His little brother whines.  
The navigator?  
Always.  
The light that surrounds him becomes brighter and brighter until he can’t see anything, but blazing brightness. The handwriting on the piece of paper in front of him becomes indistinct and blurry before it fades away entirely.  
What was happening to him? Was he able to shut the drawer properly? Was Sherlock safe?  
Why would Sherlock need to be safe? You are the one who’s sitting here.  
But Sherlock had to be protected at all costs. Mycroft had to make absolutely sure his brother would be unharmed.  
Family members are always a weakness, echoes it through his conscience.  
“True enough, but my brother is not like the others.”  
You care deeply for your brother.  
Mycroft grits his teeth. “Caring is a weakness.”  
Caring so much about your brother is your weakness and will be your downfall.  
Mycroft’s fingers dig into the chair’s armrests with brutality.  
Tell me about the story of Achilles.  
“Achilles? Very well then, Achilles’ mother Thetis took her son to the river called Styx, which was supposed to offer powers of invulnerability. She dipped his little body into the water, but as Thesis held Achilles by the heel, his heel was not washed over by the magical water. Achilles grew up to be a man of war that survived many great battles. But one day, a poisonous arrow shot at him was lodged in his heel, killing him shortly after.”  
Not unlike the Siegfried story of the Nibelungenlied! May it be the fallen leaf from a linden tree or one careless moment of a mother, leaving a heel unprotected?  
“Full many a wonder is told us in stories old, of heroes worthy of praise, of hardships dire, of joy and feasting, of weeping and of wailing; of the fighting of bold warriors, now ye may hear wonders told,” Mycroft naturally remembers the beginning of the epic poem. “Siegfried is a dragon slayer…like my little brother.”  
Who sends him out to kill the beasts?  
“I do.”  
Just imagine, sending your little brother on another dangerous mission to slay one of his dragons, but that time he’s not coming back to you.  
Mycroft’s heart clenched inside of his heavy breathing chest. He did not need to envision that scenario again. He’d already imagined Sherlock’s death countless of times. Sometimes he even dreamt about his little brother lying pale and cold in front of him. He would shy away from touching his brother a very last time – from surrendering to something he’d never allowed himself when Sherlock was still alive – kissing those soft lips in the shape of a cloverleaf, kissing him goodbye.  
You seem to know a lot about mythological stories. Tell me an epic tale about two brothers. Tell me about Cain and Abel!  
“Cain committed the first murder by killing his own brother. It’s said he killed him out of anger and jealousy because God loved Abel more than Cain.”  
Isn’t it ironic, Cain and Abel are descendants of Adam and Eve. The first men who walked the earth and what happened? One killed the other. Why’s Cain jealous of Abel? What did Abel do?  
Abel’s offering to God was regarded while Cain’s offering was not. So Cain became angry. I’ve never been very fond of this interpretation. They were the only men on earth. They were alone. They depended on one another.  
I agree. So what is your interpretation of it? I think they must have loved each other very much, being so alone, don’t you think?  
“I wouldn’t know…I think…I… I’m getting tired now.”  
Tell me, why did Cain kill his dear brother?  
It was forbidden to speak about it. He should not do that. But he had to explain. He had to rectify what no one seemed to understand. How could he not? His tongue felt like jelly in his mouth. It seemed the most natural thing to do – to just keep talking.  
“He had to kill him to keep him. He could not compete with God for his brother’s love so he had to make sure no one else would ever come between the two of them again. Abel belonged to Cain. God was not supposed to antagonize them. If not for God they could have stayed together until the end.”  
He listens, but there is only silence. He waits, but his consciousness does not resume with the inner monologue. Listening to the silence makes his head heavier – grounds him. He can feel darkness surrounds his thoughts like a warm cloak that anchors him and keeps his mind from further hovering over his physical presence. But he cannot find peace. There is something dangerous lurking in the dark that fills his heart with terror. Anxiety crawls through the thicket of his soul like a rogue creature slowly emerging from some twisted and cruel place that is inherited by demons created by all of mankind’s nightmares. He wants to leave this place, but his limbs feel heavy and he cannot move. Tiredness overpowers him.


	2. The Pocket Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock receives a small parcel.

Sherlock sits in his living room at Baker Street 221B.   
He’s all by himself. It’s evening. He does not care what exact time it is. He is writing an article about fifteen different sorts of tobacco plants from Southern America since no decent case had surfaced for days. He has not slept for 48 hours. He had started to take GHB a couple of weeks ago. In higher doses, GHB can be used to induce comas. The dangers of mixing too much GHB and excessive amounts of alcohol are well documented—it can kill a person very quickly. And the line between just enough GHB to get high and knocking oneself out cold for hours or stopping one’s heart is incredibly thin. That’s why Sherlock likes it so much: It’s dangerous and it’s unpredictable.   
Sherlock usually avoids drinking too much alcohol, though. He remembers the one time John and he had gone out and got drunk – for a case – of course – he doesn’t like to remember his time with John. He didn’t want to be sentimental about it. He and John were history. Mary and John are the future. Accepting the inevitable: being alone again. No more flat mates. Sherlock could have looked for a new one – a new companion – he could have asked Wiggins, but on a second thought he’d rather stayed on his own – unattached. Better not getting involved again, he decided for himself.   
He had to promise to Mycroft concentrating on the Moriarty case and not getting into trouble otherwise. He knew he owned Mycroft for not sending him to Eastern Europe. It was a ghastly feeling to be owned by his older brother. He wanted them to be even again, but the Moriarty case had turned out to be more complex. Already four weeks had passed since the medial incident of Moriarty’s reappearance on all channel’s and still Sherlock had no lead. His street associates hadn’t been able to add anything to the case either. He was frustrated especially since he thought having accomplished dismantling Moriarty’s criminal network entirely after his stay in Serbia.  
“It’s no wonder you can’t sleep, Sherlock. Drinking black tea after 7 pm is such a bad habit.” Mrs. Hudson mothers when she brings him his third pot of Earl Grey tea that evening anyway.   
“I can’t remember, asking for your opinion on that matter.”  
His landlady makes a sour face.   
Thereupon Sherlock huffs: “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson and now off you pop. I’m busy.”   
“...and rude, Sherlock Holmes.” The elderly woman goes to the kitchen and puts down the pot.  
“It’s a shame John left you. He was such good company. Suited you well...at least you behaved once in a while.”  
“Rubbish! He didn’t leave me. He got married.” Sherlock exclaims with an annoyed bearing.   
“How’s Mary anyway?” Mrs. Hudson retreats to the door.  
“In labour.” Sherlock simply mumbles and starts typing again.   
“Sherlock Holmes!” Mrs. Hudson cried out behind him. “Why aren’t you at the hospital? You’re John’s best friend. You should be there.”  
“I’m sure they’ll manage quite well without me, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock turns around himself, looking for something only he knows about while his housekeeper stares at him open-mouthed.  
“But...,” she begins her protest, but is interrupted by the ring of the door bell.   
Sherlock ignores her and the door even though he wonders who it could possibly be at this hour. He hopes it’s a new case – maybe a murder...but that was highly unlikely since in that case DI Lestrade would have called him by now.   
Mrs. Hudson leaves.   
A moment later his housekeeper’s steps are heard again.  
“Mrs. Hudson, I begged you to leave...”  
“It was the mail service, Sherlock. It’s a package for you...such a strange hour, though.”  
Sherlock doesn’t look up, but extends his arm into her direction until she puts the small parcel into the palm of his hand. He takes it and disposes of it on the table.  
“Good night, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock hisses.  
“Night, Sherlock.” She sounds defeated.   
Sherlock listens to her steps until they’ve faded.   
Eventually, he takes a closer look at the package. The sender is unknown. Interesting! The address is applied with a sticker – no handwriting, but typed in Times New Roman. He reaches for his magnifying glass and inspects the post stamp. It was send from a mailing service within Greater London.   
Sherlock carefully opens the envelope. He reaches inside and feels something round and metallic. It’s a chain, attached to a pocket watch. Sherlock’s lifts it up in the air, lets it dangle in front of his face. The old watch made of silver twirls around once and Sherlock knows. The initials on the back confirm his suspicions: M. H. It’s his brother’s pocket watch. The glass display is stained with dried blood. He smells it. Presumably two to three hours had passed since the blood had tried on the otherwise spotless glassy surface.  
He calls Mycroft. The cell phone is dead. Of course.   
Sherlock pockets the watch, reaches for his coat and rushes down the stairs. He dials John’s number while flagging down a cab, but hangs up before the connection establishes. The cabbie brings him to St. Barth’s. It takes an eternity even though there’s no traffic at this hour. Sherlock types a message and sends it to Lestrade.   
I need you. Emergency. St. Barth’s. Come at once. Come alone!!

******  
Lestrade sits in his office. The clock shows it’s already shortly after 9.30 pm., but he doesn’t need to be at home. Not anymore. He drinks coffee while struggling through a mountain of paper-work. The artificial light in his office hurts his eyes.   
The inspector concentrates on a female’s voice, coming from the small television screen in front of him.   
“Health ministers from across West Africa are meeting in Ghana to form a regional response to the Ebola outbreak that has killed almost 1000 people. The World Health Organisation has confirmed that this outbreak, which affects Sierra Leone, Liberia and Guinea, is the deadliest and most aggressive in history. The organisation says "drastic" action is needed to contain the spread of the virus...”  
The news reporter stops speaking and instead cuts in a foreign correspondent that obviously reports live from one of the crisis areas. He starts talking about the situation on site. Lestrade stares at pictures of African people in hospital beds covered with botches filled with blood. White people are wearing protective clothing. Little children are crouching in front of the corpses of their parents. A young mother points for the cameraman at her dying child.   
Lestrade’s cell phone rings. He turns off the TV. He rubs his heavy eyelids and looks at the display. He stays calm, recalling the last time Sherlock had sent such a message. Lestrade had missed the arrest of his career and Sally had snatched away all the credit thanks to Sherlock Holmes’ pathetic excuse for an emergency. Still his best man speech had been quite a bumpy ride.   
DI Lestrade messages back: I hope for your sake this time it’s a bloody emergency for real, Sherlock.  
No reply. So Lestrade grabs his car keys and leaves the station.

******  
The parking lot at St. Barth’s is deserted. Lestrade makes his way up to the second floor where Molly Hooper’s laboratory is located. He notices the lights are on. He hears Sherlock’s shouting something from afar. His voice sounds uncommonly hoarse and agitated.  
Lestrade’s pace increases. The first thing he sees is Molly Hooper’s tear stained face. She’s sitting in front of the laptop while Sherlock’s pacing up and down the room, hands folded behind his back. His face is red and his eyes are gleaming with anger.   
“What the hell happened, Sherlock?”   
Lestrade walks over to Molly, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright?”  
Molly only nods. She does not avert her eyes from the computer screen.  
“She’s fine. She’s fine enough.” Sherlock barks.   
“The bloody program doesn’t work correctly. Apparently, they have a new program for blood sample analysis which is not familiar to Miss Hooper yet, so she makes lots of lots of mistakes while operating it.”   
“Who's blood are we analysing here, Sherlock?” Lestrade asks when he spots the pocket watch on the table next to where Molly was seated.   
He looks at Sherlock who had turned his face to the window and away from the DI.  
“My brother’s”, Sherlock mumbles.   
Lestrade picks up the watch, which’s already packed in a transparent plastic bag, to be later stored in the evidence room.   
“Bloody hell!”


	3. Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, Greg and Molly try to find out about Mycroft's last contact on the day of his kidnapping.

“It came to me in an envelope 54 minutes ago. No clue where it came from or who the sender could be. I already checked it for finger prints. None.”  
Sherlock did not speak to Lestrade directly, but was still staring out of the window.  
“What do you think happened?” He asked. Lestrade was sure Sherlock already went through all kinds of scenarios in his mind.   
“What do you think happened, inspector?” Sherlock spat out.  
“I think the next necessary step would be to contact MI5, Sherlock.”   
Sherlock hastily turns around: “No! Don’t you see? This is a game. This is a personal invitation. They want me to play the game. Solve the riddle. Whoever sent this to my flat wanted me to take the bait.”   
Lestrade shook his head: “Don’t do this, Sherlock. This could end very badly. We need help. We need a special force that organizes an elaborate search. They have the men, the equipment and the money to find him.”  
The younger man strides towards the police officer: “I didn’t let you come here to fight over silly strategies. I will not risk my brother’s life, dragging in the police and the secret service. The kidnappers didn’t claim any money or favours. They haven’t even explained themselves yet. They just sent me his watch to make the first move. It’s clearly personal, don’t you see? One wrong move on my part, for instance involving the bloody government could make them end the game.”  
Lestrade looked over to Molly, whose eyes were still gloomed to the monitor. She appeared calmer now. The inspector didn’t know if that meant she was closer to a result or simply because Sherlock didn’t direct his fury towards her for once, but was focused on him now. Sherlock was right. Kidnappers were unpredictable. If they had managed to kidnap Mycroft Holmes of all men they were clearly perfectly organised and probably rooted to London’s elaborate criminal network. They must have been planning this whole thing for at least a couple of months.   
“Did you try to call him?”   
“His cell phone is turned off.” Sherlock stood behind Molly now, looking over her shoulder, his fingers tapping on the table’s surface, a fast and steady rhythm.  
“What do you know about his schedule? Where was he supposed to be last night?”   
“I don’t know since I don’t want to call his assistant. I never call her. Why would I? I have Mycroft’s number. So, consequently she’d suspect something’s off.”   
“We need to know about his schedule and who the last person was he’d spoken to.”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes: “Yes, yes, yes, a smokescreen, a false pretence...that’s what we need and that’s where you come in, Greeeeeg, right?”  
In fact, that was the very first time Sherlock bloody Holmes got his surname right.   
“Listen! You’ll call my brother’s office.”

******

Greg had to listen only twice to the ring tone before a woman’s voice answered the phone: “Hello?”  
“Erm...yeah, hello, DI Lestrade’s speaking. I was hoping you could help me out. My cell’s malfunctioning and I lost all my numbers as well as my schedule, but I need to reach Mr. Holmes. Would you be so kind and give me his cell phone number? It’s rather urgent.”  
“What is the nature of your call?” Anthea requested coolly.   
“What? I mean, it’s about his brother. I mean Sherlock’s alright, it’s just that, y’know Mr. Holmes requested to keep him updated if something...anything would occur concerning...”,   
Greg was whispering now: “...it’s private y’know. I don’t want to babble about...”  
Anthea interrupted him with a sigh: “I’m already familiar with Sherlock Holmes’ drug issues, Sir, so this is hardly secret knowledge. You say Mr. Holmes gave you his private number? Wait a minute. I have to verify that.”   
Gregory coughed slightly.   
“Indeed, he did. Listen, it’s 07106 171066. Got it?”  
“Great, thank you. I’ll try to reach him right away.” Gregory didn’t know he was so good at lying.  
“That would be pointless, Mr. Lestrade. He currently attends a meeting.”   
“Oh okay, thanks, so would you know how long this meeting is gonna last?”  
“It’s really bad, is it? Mr. Holmes’s not to be envied when it comes to his brother. Wait a second please, would you.”  
Lestrade looked over to Sherlock and gave him a thumb up sign. Sherlock sneered.  
“Okay, listen, he’s got a meeting with Charles Gibson. Mr. Holmes scheduled this as an open end meeting since it’s his last appointment tonight. So, I guess it will take another hour. He never stays until after 11 pm except it’s an emergency and since Gibson’s flat is in Belgravia, too, he might even be home earlier. Just try to reach him around 11.”   
“That’s great, thank you so much.” Gregory chirped.  
Anthea hung up without further exchange of pleasantries.   
Greg informed the others. “The name is Charles Gibson. Apparently, they were supposed to meet at his house in Belgravia.”  
“Did he really tell you to spy on his own brother?” Molly asked.  
“Well, yeah...since the Magnussen case. Are you honestly surprised about that?”  
Greg avoided looking at Sherlock.  
Molly opened her mouth, but the computer finally made the shrill sound they were waiting for.  
Sherlock stared at the screen. Molly gulped.   
“What? What’s the bloody result?” Greg cried.  
Sherlock slipped into his coat. “It’s a match. Let’s go and find Charles Gibson.”  
“But Belgravia is not exactly a precise location, Sherlock!”  
“I know where each single member of the House of Commons live.”  
“How?” Molly grabbed her coat and hurried to keep up with Lestrade and him.  
“I randomly scanned through some of my brother’s files. Well, actually, I scanned through a lot last time I went to the mirthless bunker he calls his office. One of them contained all addresses and contact information of the political elite of Great Britain. I stored them in my mind palace...somewhere. You never know, might come in handy someday.”  
Sherlock went ahead while his coat wafted unruly behind him.  
“Do you think he’s dead?” Whispered Molly barely audible so that only Greg could hear her.  
“No bloody idea. I hope not...it’s unlikely...he’s an asset no one would kill lightly. They need him to get what they want.”   
Unless they already had what they wanted, Greg added in his head.  
Molly nodded. “Yeah, I mean he’s an important man. He’ll be okay.”  
I’ve seen pigs fly, Molly Hooper! But now was not the time to discourage the young woman, so Greg just kept his mouth shut and smiled helplessly at the pathologist.  
“Are you coming?” Sherlock shouted, already waiting next to Lestrade’s car.  
“So where am I supposed to...” Greg began while fastening his seat belt.  
“Quiet! I need to access my mind palace!” Sherlock barked.  
“Of course!” Greg rolled his eyes and started the car’s engine. Molly took a seat in the back, looking rather pale.   
“No, No, No, No...That’s also wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.” Sherlock mumbled to himself.   
He had his eyes closed, tried to focus, tried to remember where he had stored the information about Charles Gibson and the other politicians. It was hard to concentrate since there were still high amounts of GHB running through his blood stream and there was...something...an emotion he couldn’t quite place yet.   
Greg headed into the direction of Belgravia.   
It was a twenty minutes ride via Victoria Embankment. Neither he nor Molly dared to speak another word while Sherlock was concentrating so hard the veins on his forehead started to show while sweat trickled down his contracted eyebrows.


	4. The Unwanted Visitor

_A younger Sherlock stood in front of the window, looking up through his telescope to the stars. It was a star-bright night – perfect to study constellations when suddenly the door to his room opened and his brother entered without asking for permission which was highly unusual._   
_“Okay, Sherlock, where is it? You had no right to take it. Give it back. It’s bloody outrageous.”Mycroft was towering over him, his hands propped to his sides._   
_“Don’t act like a sissy, Mycroft, I merely borrowed it for educational reasons.”_   
_“I don’t care why you took it. Are you incapable to understand the simple concept of privacy?”_   
_Sherlock stopped looking through the telescope, instead focusing on his older brother._   
_“Not at all! I do not understand. Privacy seems superfluous to me, especially between the two of us. I know everything about you, brother and vice versa, so why hiding from each other or pretending there’s such thing between us?”_   
_“Because, we aren’t children anymore, Sherlock. Adulthood comes along with new necessities that need to be protected against intrusions from the outside world. Contrary to children, adults perceive themselves as individuals. This automatically calls for a new setting of public and private social spheres. That also means I have the right calling something my own without having to share it with my nosy little brother!”_   
_Sherlock stood up, walking to his cupboard, retrieving a magazine from one of the drawers and handing it over to Mycroft._   
_“Speaking of adulthood…dear brother…my birthday is coming up.”_   
_“Thank God, my little brother will become off age soon. Which means he’ll be entirely responsible for his daily attempts of self-destruction! Only one more year to go”._   
_Mycroft groaned, whipping the magazine out of Sherlock’s hand._   
_“Why is it so dear to you, Mycroft? That piece of paper is over ten years old.”_   
_“Excuse me, that piece of paper is one of the few G.E.M. ever produced in this country. It’s holy and it holds collector’s value.”_   
_“G.E.M. stands for Gay East Midlands: a magazine published in Nottingham mainly produced for the gay community and was only distributed monthly in the years 1983 and 1984. Despite its relatively short lifespan, GEM managed to reach audiences as far afield as Edinburgh and London, as well as the local gay and lesbian populations in places like Leicester, Nottingham and Derby.” Sherlock spit out all the details he had stored in his head before he looked at the cover, adding: “Two men kissing each other, I wonder what it must be like. Do you know how it feels like, Mycroft? Surely, there must be a reason, holding the magazine so dear to you?”_   
_Mycroft sighed: “How about finding it out on your own?”_   
_“Oh yes, I sincerely intend to do so very soon.” Sherlock smiled._   
_“Good luck, finding someone who is bovine enough, though,” Mycroft chuckled._   
_Sherlock closed the gap between the two of them, placing his fingers over Mycroft’s lips. A bolt move which was not lost on his older brother who struggled to remain unperturbed._   
_“Guess what? I don’t even need to find anyone, because you’ll do it.”_   
_“Only in your dreams, little brother.” Mycroft felt an unbearable heat crawling up his spine. It certainly wasn’t shame._   
_“I want you to show me how to kiss for my Birthday. You should thank me, Mycroft. It’s such a cost and time saver.”_   
_Mycroft looked at the magazine cover and back to Sherlock. He wrinkled his nose._   
_“Why would you even want this?”_   
_Sherlock huffed: “Don’t be dull! I need to experience it myself. Obviously, there are certain things you can’t learn by reading a book, I need evidence and who’d be a better guinea pig than you.”_   
_“It would be completely inappropriate.” Mycroft simply stated._   
_“Bo-ring! Bo-ring! Bo-ring! It’s also inappropriate to purposely leave the rain barrel uncovered for your little brother to frequently find drowned squirrels in there to dissect.”_   
_Sherlock rolled his eyes, sitting down at his desk again._   
_“But it’s not illegal like the things you suggest.”_   
_Mycroft retorted while turning around to leave not wanting to approach the subject any further._   
_“No one will find out about it. C’mon!” Sherlock tried again._   
_“You’re insufferable. I said no.”_   
_Mycroft turned on his heel to leave._   
_“What about my birthday present, Mycroft?”_   
_“I already took care of that! Goodnight, Sherlock.”_   
_“No goodnights kiss then, blud?” Sherlock hissed, but Mycroft was already gone._   
_Mycroft had bought Sherlock the illustrated version of the Encyclopedia Britannica, published, in 1827 for his 17th birthday. Sherlock’s reaction had been to show no gratitude at all, but immediately throwing all volumes in the attic._

“At ease! I had a friend whom I loved very much until someone took him away from me, but I can’t say I loved him the way you love your sibling.”  
Mycroft recognized the voice from the speaker above his head. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he replied with a cold tone while the heat inside of him threatened to burn him alive. He is aware of his glowing cheeks and his pulse, racing and letting him become conscious of the unforgivable mistake he had committed.  
The voice chuckled hoarsely. “So will I in the foreseeable future. The problem about getting drugged, Mr. Holmes, is that you can’t remember how much of what you experience, think and feel only happens in your intoxicated mind. Let me tell you something: I heard enough to know you are much more interesting than I initially thought. I underestimated you, Mr. Holmes. You are very naughty!”  
Mycroft was practiced in the art of pretense so he made a face that showed nothing else than utter boredom.  
"I hope you're feeling better now the drugs have worn off. I like using drugs... it is the most efficient means of getting information."  
Mycroft doesn't feel the need to reply; instead he remembers their first meeting, only six months ago.

_It was back in 2012. A day in spring. The car park on top of an orphaned shopping mall that had gone busted a couple of years ago offered the perfect location for them to meet in the shadows. It was in the middle of the night when the two men got out of their black vehicles. Mycroft’s limousine was securely parked close to the only exit while his opponent obviously didn’t care about taking precautions of any sort. The other man strolled towards Mycroft. He seemed unworried and relaxed. He even smiled and tried to shake Mycroft’s hand, but Mycroft refused to play this game._   
_“I don’t have much time so let us come straight to the point, Mr. Moran. What is it you want? Your friend Moriarty will be untouchable for the unforeseeable future?”_   
_Moran smirked about the other man’s expression. “Fair enough, but why should we not exploit the vital information we have gathered about our shared enterprise?”_   
_“Smart dogs don’t bite the hand that feeds them.” Mycroft gave his fake smile._   
_Moran circled the other man before he replied “We are strays and a stray seizes every opportunity to secure its food. Ever heard of a dog that isn’t always hungry? Me neither."_   
_Mycroft already regretted mentioning the dog simile._   
_“Even if I would be willing to pay for your silence how could you ever convince me of your credibility?”_   
_“But no, you don’t understand, Mr. Holmes. It is not payment I seek, at least not the coin, I want something else: A teeny-weenie change of our plan. I don’t doubt my friend’s safety in your capable hands, but I think a cage is hardly a proper place for a proper dog, don’t you think?_   
_Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I was very clear right from the start, what did I say to you? I’ll be willing to safe Jim’s life, but I won’t let him prowl around to cause more trouble for the system.”_   
_“Then our deal is void and the public will learn about the government’s involvement in the deliberate killing of many, many lives that could have been saved.”_

“Are you wondering what's going to happen with you now that I have you, Mr. Holmes? Isn’t it an exciting feeling, being captured and tied to a chair? Must be a delightful change for a paper pusher like you?"  
“I can barely contain myself.” Mycroft smiled sweetly before his face freezes back to an expressionless mask. Why would the man have to play such a game? Was it the sadistic pleasure of suspense?  
The voice chuckles again: “I wish my boss was still alive. He’d enjoyed this so very much. Y’know he wouldn’t have judged you. He was too crazy for that. He’d appreciate your kinkiness in ways unknown to the common mind. So, tell me, Mr. Holmes, have you tried to seduce your little brother? Did you sneak to his room at night to lie down beside him and touch him in the most inappropriate ways? Did he struggle when you lay on top of his small, fragile body? Did you press your hand over his mouth to pretend him from waking your parents with his screams caused by the sheer horror of what you were about to do to your own flesh and blood – so innocent, so young?”  
Mycroft stared towards the window: “You’re pathetic.”  
Of course, he had never done such a thing. He was no moralist – morals were for those who sat below the salt that needed guidance– but he was certainly no rapist. But what did it matter? Sherlock had been the one determined to seduce him, not that Mycroft ever would have given in. Not, because he wasn’t tempted. He was devilishly tempted, but he knew all the begging and unsubtle attempts of intimacy were caused by unmatched and exuberant curiosity as well as the pubertal chaos inside of his teenage brother. Taking advantage would have been so easy.  
“Why you're playing hide and seek, Moran? We both know not everything went to plan. It was an unforeseeable development - merely an accident. You can't blame me for Moriarty's suicide.” Mycroft let him know.  
“An accident?“ Moran spat out. "We had an arrangement. You were supposed to keep him safe."  
“This becomes rather dreary after a little while. Why don’t you cut the trivia and get straight to the point?”  
Clearly, James Moriarty had been useful for a little while even for the British government. Who wasn't in need for a criminal consultant from time to time? Even the government's dirty and blood stained laundry had to be taken care of by a professional launderer on a regular basis.  
“Besides you insisted so I let Moriarty go. He would have been safe in prison.”  
“Shut up!” The voice commanded. The silence only lasted for a little while.  
“Tell me something about myself, Mr. Holmes! Deduce me!”  
“I’m not a show off.” Mycroft rolled his eyes.  
“No, indeed, it might have been more fun to question your brother after all, since he definitely is.”  
Mycroft sighed. “Very well then, you’re from South England, likely Portsmouth. You’re between 35 and 40, you’re an educated man, even though you did not study at one of the more prestigious universities – your accent – still too strong, you must have stayed close to home until your mid twenties then. You have also spent a considerable time with the forces, probably served together with US-American soldiers since you use phrases like “At ease” or “big dick contest” in your everyday language. You have access to an extensive criminal network which reaches far into the government’s belly since you were able to contact a member of the House of Commons to get to me. Balance of probability of course. I’m sitting in the operation theatre of an abandoned hospital, built after the 1980s – judging by the chair. You put so much effort in painting the walls to make the place seem random and anonymous which brings me to the conclusion that we must be still in or near London since you were afraid I would be able to identify the place. You should have denied yourself the dramatic gesture of placing me in the dentist’s chair - gives away the age of the building far too easily. Could we cut the crap now to get it over with?” Because I really have to take a…well, no reason to become vulgar now. Finally, Mycroft throw an artificial smile towards the window as to make a point.  
“Hooah…,” the man behind the speaker started clapping enthusiastically. “Fantastic. Very good. Very entertaining, Mr. Holmes. Your deduction skills are indeed admirable. But you missed something.”  
Mycroft frowned.  
“The whole is more than the sum of its parts. You own me a life.”  
“Are we talking about a life in general or my life, Moran?”  
“I’d say we’re still negotiating, Iceman. I figure you’re also interested in some documents that are in my possession at the time?”  
“Kidnapping a government official is no petty crime, Moran. I assure you everyone is already looking for me. Soon, you’ll be the most famous man in England.” Anthea would notice his absence early enough. She’ll move heaven and earth to find him.  
“I don’t think so, Mr. Holmes. It’s 0-late-hundred. Nobody will miss you until your first appointment tomorrow morning at 700 with the PM’s spokesman, because you are a lonely man. No wife, or should I say husband...no children, not even a pet. But what I was actually thinking is this, even you have to admit: I’m good enough of a criminal to execute your dirty work. I’d like to receive some credit for it. All I say is: Operation Sandman.”  
At least now he knew how much time had passed since Gibson had drugged him.  
“Are you planning to kill me?” Mycroft asked.  
Moran laughed throatily. “I can only kill you once.”  
Bastard! Not exactly the answer Mycroft was hoping for. He clenched his teeth.  
“As much as I'm enjoying our little chatter, Mister …, but I’m currently developing needs that require making use of your lavatory. Would you mind, calling one of your royal-ish masked henchmen to show me the way?”  
Mycroft needed to get to know this place. He had to find out if there was a possibility to escape by any chance (and he also needed to relieve himself in earnest).  
“Well, when one’s heading towards the age of fifty one develops a weak bladder.” The voice chuckled again.  
“Apparently…,” Mycroft replied keeping the anger out of his voice.  
“Just hold on a moment longer. Someone is coming for you to put you out of your misery – for now.”  
Not long before another man entered the room, this time he was wearing the smiling face of Prince Harry. The man was taller and more muscular than the first. He carried a light machine-gun, type L108A1, first produced in the 70s in Belgium. The man bent down in front of him to make loose of the cable tie around his ankles.  
Prince Harry removed the electrodes that stuck to Mycroft’s bare chest before the man gestured him to stand up. Mycroft did as he was told and hold out his wrists. The mask man shook his head once. Was he joking?  
.“How am I supposed to ‘do it’ while I’m handcuffed if I may asked?”  
Naturally the man kept silent, but the lunatic behind the speaker replied: “That’s what he is for. He’ll hold ‘it’ for you while you take a piss.”  
“Don’t be absurd.” Mycroft groaned.  
“You shouldn’t worry so much ‘bout your dignity, Mr. Holmes. Soon it will be as meaningless as the rest of your life. Relax and enjoy another man’s touch as long as it lasts.”  
The man behind the mask took him by the wrists and shoved him towards the door. When they had reached the entrance he pulled out a blindfold and everything around Mycroft went dark again.


	5. The Break in

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, stop it”, Lestrade cried. Sherlock had ringed the door bell next to a huge iron gate rather excessively.   
“So maybe no one’s home”, Molly assumed.  
Sherlock ignored her, but started to walk around the politician’s property. The front of the house was only accessible by passing the gate while the back was surrounded by a tall stone wall which supposedly protected the family’s private garden from unwanted observers.   
Lestrade and Molly followed Sherlock two steps behind.   
An old wooden door that led into the backyard was also closed, probably by a bolt from the inside.   
“Help me over the wall!” Sherlock suddenly exclaimed.   
“That’s illegal. We can’t break in there, Sherlock!”  
“We won’t just break in there. We’ll stop a crime in process. Aren’t there any silly regulations of yours that will cover that?”   
“Danger in delay, I guess”, Greg confirmed.  
“Well, good, care to give me a hand…quite literally we’re actually speaking about a hand and a shoulder.” Sherlock grinned.  
“Okay, but you’ll open that bloody garden door for us. I won’t let you go in there alone. Are we clear about that?  
“Of course, now, don’t waste more time.”  
Greg folded his hands so Sherlock could place his foot in it and put one hand on Greg’s shoulder, reaching for the edge of the wall to hoist him further up. Half way up he stepped on Lestrade’s shoulder to lift his upper body on top of the wall. Greg winced in pain under Sherlock’s weight. His other foot landed in Greg’s face, accidentally or out of sheer ruthlessness…Lestrade couldn’t tell.  
“Bloody hell, Sherlock”, he cried out while Molly suppressed a giggle, covering her smiling lips with one hand.   
Sherlock jumped down on the other side and walked straight into the direction of the house. There were huge windows which opened a view to the family’s living and dining room.   
He could see instantly that something was wrong. The entire family, father, mother and three teenagers sat motionlessly at the dining table.   
Sherlock hurried towards the house taking a closer look. All family members were gagged and handcuffed with tape. The detective rattled at the back door, but it was locked. Thereupon, Sherlock took a run-up throwing his full weight against the massive wood, once, twice and a third time until the hinges and bolt finally gave away. 

***

Meanwhile Greg tried the same, backing his shoulder into the garden door.   
“I bloody knew it. Dammit.” The wood didn’t give away one inch.  
“Help me up!” Molly suddenly demanded.  
Greg sighed.  
“Do it!”   
“Are you sure?”  
“Yeah.”

***

Sherlock reached the dining room, stepping up to Mr. Gibson, ripping the tape off of his mouth. The older man cried out in pain.   
“Thanks,” he breathed heavily.   
“Where is Mycroft Holmes?” Sherlock didn’t bother with releasing Gibson’s ties or paying any attention to the politician’s family. Instead he grabbed for Gibson’s shirt collar to force him out of his seat.   
“W…what? What are you talking about?” The man stammered.  
“WHERE IS HE?” Sherlock shouted now.   
“I really don’t know.”  
*SMACK*  
“Why are you doing this? Please!” Gibson cried out.  
“Don’t lie to me! Tell me what happened!”  
Gibson trembled. “Who are you?”  
*SMACK*  
“I’m beginning to lose my patience, Mr. Gibson.”  
“How dare you, mistreating a government official.”  
“I haven’t even started yet, Mr. Gibson. Where the bloody hell is my brother? You will be responsible if something happens to him, wasting my precious time with your babbling.” Sherlock growled.  
“Mycroft is your brother?”  
Sherlock snarled and swung his arm, threatening to punch the man another time.  
“No, please don’t”, Gibson pleaded. “Men came. They were wearing masks. They took him.”  
“Are you trying to say you had nothing to do with this? They must have known about my brother’s meeting with you. I strongly suggest you start telling the truth. You have to be the security leak. How else were they supposed to know?”  
“Please, I don’t know.”  
Sherlock let him go and walked over to Gibson’s wife. “Would you like me to hurt your family? I could start with your wife?”  
Gibson shook his head. “For Christ’s sake, yes, yes, bloody hell. I had no choice. They threatened my family. They wanted him. They told me they had a score to settle with your brother.”  
“WHO IS THEY?” Sherlock shouted at him.  
“I don’t know. He never told me his name. Mycroft had an arrangement with those criminals.”  
“Rubbish! My brother is the government. He’s not part of some criminal network!”  
Gibson gave him a pitiful smile. “I’m afraid you’re in the wrong, Mr. Holmes. He might not be a criminal in the strictest of sense, but he definitely employed them to do the dirty work. How else do you think certain things get done in this country? Do you think all of our problems just go away after having occasional civilized lunch talks and solving international crisis over tea time?”  
Sherlock’s mind was spinning now. Of course, he knew Mycroft had to make some difficult decisions from time to time, walking a tightrope, occasionally at the edge of what was legal, but his brother was no villain. He was a guardian of the nation – the dachshund of her Majesty.  
“What are you implying with this, Gibson?” Sherlock spat out.  
“Are you really so gullible? Not every decision we make in favour of our own country results in world peace, Mr. Holmes. Sometimes things become messy. Often enough others suffer in exchange for our prosperity. Those are things even children learn in school today. The global market dictates and regulates a politician’s work.”  
“Stop babbling and tell me already!” Sherlock paced back and forth now.  
“Look for Operation Sandman, Mr. Holmes.”  
“What…” but before Sherlock was able to ask further, Lestrade arrived at the scene.  
“What the hell? Sherlock!” The DI hurried over to Gibson’s wife, removed the gag and cut her loose.  
“What is wrong with you, Sherlock? Why didn’t you release them?”  
Sherlock ignored the older man, but left the room, stumbling into Molly at the door.   
“Sherlock? Where are you going?” Molly cried after him.

***

Sherlock entered Mycroft’s townhouse in Belgravia, using his set of spar keys. He walked straight to Mycroft’s study and turned on the laptop.   
Of course it was password protected. He had already tried a few during the last time he had stayed at his brother’s house. Just for the fun of it. He had failed every time. It was a challenge he had accepted years ago. The code consisted of 10 positions (10.000.000.000 possibilities) He had tried 2196 possible combinations so far – he still remembered each single one – stored in his mind palace. His brother had informed him a high-performance computer would need 23 years, 62 days, 15 hours, 4 minutes and 32 seconds at best to find the right password. Sherlock knew it was nearly impossible to crack it, especially since his brother was not as sentimental and foolish as to use a childish memory or the name of a beloved person in his life – at least Mycroft had once told him so. Therefore Sherlock had always tried numbers.  
Sherlock stared at the screen, but soon his eyes began to wander to the framed old picture standing on the desk. It showed both brothers standing next to each other. Mycroft was sixteen and Sherlock was nine, in front of them sat their long deceased Irish Setter Redbeard. The picture had been taken during a family holiday at the coast of Naples, Italy in the summer of 1983. Sherlock did not look into the camera, but down at the dog while Mycroft’s attention was clearly focused on his little brother.   
Hours ticked by. Sherlock went out to the terrace to smoke two of his brother's ghastly low tar cigarettes before he sat back down, staring at the screen for another hour.  
Sherlock took one more look at their picture. Mycroft’s expression – almost insufferably sentimental – Sherlock frowned, then his eyes widened and he turned back to the computer screen.   
Could it be? Oh Mycroft, you are very clever! What if his brother was counting on Sherlock believing him? Not names, no sentimental rubbish, numbers are the key. Were they really? What if his older brother was a sentimental old fool after all?  
Not Redbeard,   
not Rotbart,   
Ahenobarbus, no...how about Barbe-Rouge?   
No, no, no, no, no, no. BARBA RUBRA?   
Dammit…but…wait…   
B-A-R-B-A-R-O-S-S-A.  
He held his breath.   
ACCESS GRANTED.  
Gotcha! Who’s the smart one now?   
Sherlock’s lips curled into a smile.  
He started browsing through his brother's file jungle...


End file.
